


Damn it

by Kaz_of_Carinthia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_of_Carinthia/pseuds/Kaz_of_Carinthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's relationship with his crime-solving genius flatmate takes a turn for the decidedly unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damn It

**Author's Note:**

> I am going with plausible deniability here, as this is my first ever fanfic effort.  
> Inspired by legions of tremendously talented fanfic writers on Ao3 and elsewhere.  
> Not beta-ed. Comments welcome. Don't be kind, be honest.  
> I do not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creators.

_God_ _damn_ it, he’d done it this time. He’d let his defences down, he’d deemed himself safe, he’d trusted his heightened sense of awareness and his instinctive responses, honed over years of soldiering, and he really had no-one else to blame for the predicament he now found himself in. Though technically – _technically_ – his oxygen-starved brain desperately supplied, it was at least partially his mad flatmate’s fault.

Right. Breathe. Assess the situation, formulate a plan, execute said plan. John risked a quick glance downwards … “Christ, that’s … it’s … yesss”. Ok. Fine. That had clearly been an error of judgement. Correction: yet _another_ error of judgement. Which had followed seamlessly upon the first error of judgement, and that brought John nicely back to demanding that his brain provide an explanation, _any explanation_ , for finding himself propped against a damp brick wall, deep in the shadows of a narrow alley behind some deserted warehouses in some godforsaken part of south London, pinned fast – quite literally immobilised – by nothing more than Sherlock’s warm breath.

Let’s back up a bit: It had been a perfectly normal day, by a given value of “perfectly normal”, which, admittedly, for most people, probably does not include battery acid in every single breakfast bowl, three neat stitches carefully applied to the fresh gash over Sherlock’s left eyebrow and a jiffy bag delivered by a motorcycle courier, which had … well, it had _wriggled_ under his right arm, where he had tucked it while he signed the proffered PDA. See? Quite normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Though, come to think of it, Sherlock had been uncharacteristically silent while John had cleaned and sutured his facial injury. John had put that down to a) Sherlock’s embarrassment at having, essentially, misjudged an experiment leading to a minor explosion and a self-inflicted wound caused by low-flying glass shards and b) his flatmate’s vanity, which was, frankly, the only reason he would deign to keep so still while John was suturing his face.

By early evening the case they had been working on for the past five days had been solved, really, it had been ridiculously easy, even Lestrade could have managed, had he only been willing to _observe_ for once …

Sherlock had delivered his deductions in his usual rapid-fire manner, but rather than gloating in the gratitude heaped upon him by Lestrade and the praise quietly offered by John – arrogantly received as his due, but nevertheless always, _always_ given freely – he had remained near the victim’s body, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat and head bowed, seemingly unaware of the relief spreading among Scotland Yard’s finest, whose evenings and weekends had just been saved, once again, by the world’s only consulting detective.

John had seen this countless times: Sherlock’s finely-tuned racing car of a brain, stimulated to peak performance by the intricacies of murder most foul, was not able to simply let the engine idle; having recorded, reviewed and mined the data, circuits were running hot and fast, and his thoughts often turned inwards to his mental store of cold cases. On the other side of the warehouse parking lot, Detective Inspector Lestrade had lifted his eyes towards them and was watching Sherlock carefully. Both he and John knew that it was not unusual for the solution of a decades-old crime to follow in the slipstream of the latest feat of brilliance, and while Sherlock simply revelled in the mental exercise, Lestrade’s bean-counting superiors appreciated the neat upward curve of his team’s arrest record.  Minutes passed, but Sherlock did not stir, not even to flash a scowl at Lestrade’s forensics specialist, when a particularly grating and nasal drone announced Anderson’s late arrival on the scene.

This was the point when John’s eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown. Observing Sherlock had been an amusing pastime when they had first become flatmates and partners in crime-solving, but seeing him, really _seeing_ him, had long since become an all-consuming passion and John’s most closely guarded secret. Clearly, something was bothering Sherlock. John shook his head, and clenched his teeth in view of what he was about to do.

So, this was it. This had been John’s first error. John, that brave, loyal soul, had mentally girded his loins and approached Sherlock at a deliberately casual pace, his frown deepening further when he had noticed Sherlock’s shoulders draw slightly forward and upward towards his ears, signalling to all who might be watching for signals that things were not o.k., and Sherlock did not want to talk about it. _Emphatically_ not _._ Right, well. Signal received and understood. John read Sherlock very well indeed, and this was unmistakeable. So, obviously, John had reached out, wrapping a warm palm around the curve of Sherlock’s biceps with gentle pressure, quickly dropping his hand when he felt the man go rigid in his grasp. Standing side-by-side, to all intents and purposes they were now simply reviewing the case, while the assembled representatives of NSY continued with the technicalities of securing the proof that was needed to back up and tie down Sherlock’s dizzying deductions. 

 “So”, John had murmured, “what’s _really_ bothering you?”  Eyes firmly fixed upon the lifeless body in front of him, he was so attuned to his flatmate that he had sensed, rather than seen the minute movement of an aborted headshake. “Sherlock”, he had sighed, “you have not slept for three days, and I know for a fact that you crumbled that biscuit under the table earlier today, which means that to my certain knowledge you have not eaten a thing since last Wednesday, and if you won’t talk to me, will you at least let me honour my Hippocratic Oath and get you home before you drop dead?” This deliberate attempt at pathos had been met with a Sherlock TM eye roll, but as this had been John’s intention, he suppressed a grin, and simply tugged at Sherlock’s coat. “C’mon, Lestrade can handle this, we can probably get a cab from the High Street, though it will cost an arm and a leg to get back to Baker … _What_ are you doing?” Sherlock had turned towards John, following the direction of the tugging, a look of grim determination wiping fatigue and frustration from his features. Propelled by the momentum of the turn, he had placed his left arm around the smaller man’s shoulders and steered him firmly away from the parking lot, in the opposite direction of High Streets and cabs, tea and home.

Lestrade had yelled something about texting, and Sherlock had briefly lifted his right hand in acknowledgement and continued towards the loading bays to the rear of the nearest warehouse. John, accustomed as he was to following first and asking questions later, had discretely checked that his gun was indeed safely tucked into the waistband of his jeans, then redoubled his effort to keep pace with Sherlock’s longer strides. “Whatever are you up to now, you mad bastard?”, he had muttered, mostly to himself. Sherlock rarely deigned to answer what he felt were obvious questions.

A couple of turns later, somewhere in the maze of alleyways, Sherlock had stopped without warning, his left arm around John’s shoulder steering him slightly forward and then against a wall. Someone, presumably bored teenagers, had vandalised the nearest streetlight, so John had craned his neck forward to stare into the darkness ahead, hoping to see whatever it was that had Sherlock so rattled. “Sherlock”, he whispered urgently, “what am I looking for? I can’t see anything.”

“John…” the raw whisper, the hesitation – John’s eyes snapped back to his flatmate, his friend. Was he injured? How could he have been injured, John had been there the whole time? But he sounded broken, exhausted. “Are you hurt?” His hands had already started to pat Sherlock’s sides, hindered by too much coat, buttons were quickly unfastened and fingers were flying over ribs and back and hips and coming back dry. Sherlock, his face tilted away, had shaken his head. “I am not hurt, John.”

Jesus, that voice. The low, velvet vibrations immediately short-circuited John’s worried brain. Thoughts of injury, of pain, and of healing were instantly replaced, not so much by fully-formed thoughts, but by stinging wisps of _need_ and _want_. John, self-appointed observer of one Sherlock Holmes, had meticulously catalogued that voice, its range, its melodies, its intentions. This, whatever this was, was a new addition to the spectrum; he had never heard this dark, rich, breathless quality before. He had never had it directed at himself before, either, and the experience was unsettling. Not understanding what was going on, John did what any self-respecting adrenaline junkie would do: He stilled, he waited, he invited whatever was going to happen next, to happen.

Meanwhile, he observed. He observed as Sherlock moved his arms, his ridiculously _long_ arms, to place his hands on the wall either side of John’s head. He observed, as Sherlock leaned further into John’s space, his nostrils flaring minutely as he came close enough to inhale John’s scent and his eyes briefly closing as he stored that particular sense memory somewhere safe within the vast vaults of his mind palace. John observed, his air of detached calm no longer entirely convincing, as Sherlock rounded his shoulders and curled his body inwards until his forehead gently brushed John’s sternum. John expected him to rest it there, would have welcomed that demonstration of trust, but Sherlock continued moving downward, until he was crouching at John’s feet, his hands having travelled down the wall until they came to rest near John’s hipbones.

Amazing, John thought, amazing how a brain will continue to function, even while all essential supplies, such as blood and oxygen and … and _whatnot_ , are being diverted elsewhere. The experienced medical professional in John shuddered at this inaccuracy. The soldier in John wanted – no, _demanded_ – that he damn well man up and stop this, before … oh no, it’s already too late, the lover in John whispered, suppressing a slightly hysterical giggle at the thought that he had already “manned up” quite enough, thank you, and that was a significant part of the problem, don’t you see?   

The warmth of Sherlock’s breath curled against his crotch, painted in white mist by the freezing cold in the damp alley. John drew a ragged breath, and then another, fuelling his starved brain. He unclenched his fists, willing the relaxation of his fingers to translate along the rigid muscles of his arms, then lifting these to slide his hands around Sherlock’s shoulders, fingers slipping under the grey-blue scarf to come to rest on the smooth skin of his flatmate’s neck.

“Sher-lock” … How can a voice shake on a whisper? “Sherlock”, he tried again. The dark tousled head held in the gentle cradle of his hands tilted upwards, the bright intelligence of those eyes only partially shuttered by long inky lashes.  “John. I need to … will you let me … please …”.

Always willing to _hear_ Sherlock, always open to following him into whatever madness he has devised, John’s earnest gaze tracked the wide blackness of his pupils, the flush along his impossible cheekbones and then fell upon his own thumb, which he stroked softly across Sherlock’s neck to rest against the pulse point below his jaw.

Oh. _Oh_.

Ever the consummate actor, masterfully blending fact with fiction for the sake of his work, John had on many occasion been able to witness frightened Sherlock, insecure Sherlock, simpering Sherlock, and on one worrying occasion even flirty Sherlock, but this, this _desperate_ Sherlock, was, for once, not a performance. Accustomed as he was to staggering mental feats, Sherlock’s courage faltered at this a leap of faith, of trust. With the bravery of the soldier, without a second’s hesitation, John made the leap for him. He had followed Sherlock into countless adventures, and now he unquestioningly followed his own heart, because it was leading him to Sherlock. And self-preservation? Self-preservation is _boring_.

Sliding his left hand through silky curls, John brought his fingers to Sherlock’s mouth. Soft, full lips met gentle fingertips with a startled exhalation of warm air. John drew his index finger along the luscious line of the lower lip, greedily observing the tiny forward movement of the head, the unconscious chasing of sensation, as John’s fingers moved away, leaving warm lips bereft, their light film of moisture rapidly cooling.

But John was no tease. There would be time for teasing, time for talking, time for whys and wherefores later. Now was the time for deftly unfastening the button on his jeans, for sighing with relief as he dragged the zipper downwards. Sherlock’s eyes flickered between John’s hand, his crotch and his face, and settled at last on the V-shaped reveal of his underwear.


	2. Terra Incognita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primarily Sherlock's POV

The wall felt cool under Sherlock’s palms, the damp, slightly gritty texture of the bricks’ exposed surface giving way to cushions of soft velvet moss that optimistically clung to the grooves in between. _Moss (Bryophyta)_ , his encyclopaedic mind supplied, _harvests sunlight to produce food through photosynthesis and in some cases, is capable of asexual reproduction_. WHAT? How was this even helpful? Brain the size of a planet, and yet …    

He felt momentarily lost, and slightly ridiculous, crouching at John’s feet in an alley, the seam of his long coat dragging on the grimy paving stones underfoot. Hands braced firmly against the wall, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut in the hope that by reducing the amount of sensory input accosting his mind, he could somehow free capacity to determine the best course of action. Because this, this god-awful _yearning_ was simply _unbearable_ , and following upon the prolonged agony of days and days of mounting distraction and irritation, his uncertainty about what to do next was more than merely uncomfortable – it completely immobilised him, leaving him stranded with his head at the level of John’s crotch, and no earthly idea of how to proceed.

As Sherlock remained frozen, his face angled slightly towards the ground, he gradually became aware of his warm breath pooling in the space between them. This close, the molecules of his exhalations were mingling with the earthy spice of John’s tantalizing scent, producing a delightful new experiment of the olfactory kind. If he could only bottle, examine and synthesise this intoxicating concoction, he would be one step closer to understanding, to finally capturing the very essence of John. But stupidly, _stupidly_ , he had left his small leather case containing those useful glass vials and droppers on the kitchen counter, when Lestrade’s earlier call had them tearing out of the flat, just minutes after John had carefully placed the final butterfly strip across Sherlock’s latest injury.

With his eyes firmly closed, he could still feel the ghost of John’s fingers on his forehead,  wiping the trickle of blood from his eyebrow and temple, gently examining the wound, then patiently removing two tiny slivers of glass before neatly closing the gash. He had dismissed Sherlock from his care with a brief nod, then turned to the kitchen sink to clean his surgical kit, ready for the inevitable next time.

Was it somehow miraculous, Sherlock had briefly wondered, that this particular instance of tender care, professionally administered as on countless occasions before, and surely on countless more to follow, had turned out to be the catalyst that finally crystallized the gnawing sense of distraction and irritation that had been steadily increasing over the past few days so that in one heart wrenching moment he had at last grasped the true nature of his feelings for his flatmate? Sitting on a kitchen stool, his bare feet cold where they touched the lino of the floor, and wearing a shirt with a blood-soaked collar, he had stared at John’s back, almost choking on the words that were straining for release. He hadn’t dared to risk it, there was too much at stake and so he had swallowed them back down, drawing them deep into the core of his body, where he could keep them safe until either his brilliant brain or his cowardly heart finally found the _right_ way.

His doctor’s bag once more tidied away, John had just been reaching for the kettle when Lestrade had called with the latest clue in their ongoing investigation. Sherlock was grateful for the Detective Inspector’s interruption, perfectly timed to release him of the obligation to deal with feelings he neither knew nor understood.

Now the ghostly impression of John’s capable fingers felt surprisingly warm and soothing, as his imagination greedily placed them on the nape of his neck. John drew in and released an audible breath at this point, which Sherlock felt as a soft flutter of air among the curls at the crown of his head.

A whispered “Sher-lock” followed. Was John’s voice shaking? Why was John’s voice shaking? “Sherlock”, still soft but firmer this time, John’s voice beckoned Sherlock to tilt his head upwards. Not mere ghosts, but the warmth and strength of John’s actual fingers cradled the back of his head, their gentle caress sliding past his occipital bone causing his eyes to snap open as he sought out John’s earnest gaze.

“John. I need to … will you let me … please …”. These were the words that came then, unbidden, unplanned and unrecognisable in their pitch and delivery. He had never deliberately used that tone of voice before, and he had never _not_ deliberately used his voice. Sherlock had no idea what he was actually asking of John. He had ventured deep into unknown territory now, _terra incognita_ , and it was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. John’s thumb was stroking in a smooth arc along his neck and where it stopped, Sherlock could feel his blood rising to meet it, beating its very own greeting against his skin at the point of contact.

“John, please …”, he wordlessly begged. “I do not know how to take this next step, and not knowing is driving me _insane_ , will you please meet me halfway?” John’s thumb read Sherlock’s pulse, his eyes read the flushed cheekbones and the dilated pupils, and his heart, John’s loyal and steady heart, read Sherlock’s own. His eyes widened and his chin moved minutely forward, cheeks hollowing slightly, as he bravely resolved to answer Sherlock’s unspoken plea.

His right hand slid from Sherlock’s neck to rest loosely on his shoulder, while he brought the fingers of his left hand to Sherlock’s mouth with single-minded determination. At the electrifying moment of union, Sherlock’s breath involuntarily stuttered. Utterly absorbed, he tracked the movement of John’s index finger as he passed it once, slowly, across his lower lip, calluses dragging slightly against this tender, most sensitive skin. Contact was broken far too soon, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to prevent his body from leaning forward, seeking a continuation of the touch. Darting his tongue out, Sherlock endeavoured to taste John, greedily scraping his teeth across his tingling bottom lip to gather every last remaining trace.

John, meanwhile, had dropped his hand from Sherlock’s mouth, and moved it to the button on his own jeans, which was deftly opened. Keeping his eyes locked onto Sherlock’s, he grasped the zipper of his flies and tugged it down, a soft sigh of relief and an unconscious tightening of his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder accompanying this action.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered rapidly between John’s face and his hand, before comprehension dawned as he settled his gaze on John’s crotch. Oh. _Oh._ John, _brilliant, wonderful_ John, of course he had understood Sherlock’s silent plea. John was showing him the way forward.


	3. Human After All

Relief spiked with wonder washed through Sherlock at the realisation that John, this former army doctor with a mostly healed shoulder wound and a propensity to type hyperbolic blog entries with two fingers – indeed, this once broken man, who many months ago had humbly offered his phone, and with it a sizeable chunk of his personal back story to feed the deductive hunger of his soon-to-be flatmate – was, in fact, a genius. A genius of such astounding magnitude, that – evading the detective’s significant powers of observation – he had managed to surreptitiously hardwire himself directly into Sherlock’s core processor, which had turned out to be – and wasn’t this a scintillating surprise? – not his brain, but his _heart_. Sherlock, it would seem, was human after all.

For the first time in days and days, his mind was clear and calm as a millpond, and with no store of previous relationship data to map this experience against, Sherlock did not pause to question this driving need to express his feelings for John in the most immediate, the most physical manner – he simply indulged.

Unaware of having issued any conscious instructions, Sherlock watched as his own hands dropped away from their anchoring on the wall, to firmly clasp John’s hips between them. Long fingers curling around the gentle slope of John’s lower back, he pressed his thumbs into the soft hollows just inside the iliac crests, and drew John towards him. By unspoken agreement, each with one hand grasping at the waistband of John’s jeans, they tugged the garment lower. The fingers of John’s left hand returned to rest at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, while he fisted the right, bunching his shirt and holding it in place over the sculpted planes of his stomach.

Proximity, arousal, and the removal of layers of denim and cotton coalesced to intensify John’s addictive scent, leaving Sherlock powerless to resist the urge to move in, to lay claim. Tipping his head forward, Sherlock dragged his nose downwards along the line of John’s oblique abdominal muscles, which were revealed just above the soft fabric of his jersey shorts. He inhaled deeply, and re-tightened his grasp on John’s hips, establishing John, _his John_ , as his anchor.

Above him, as his lips traced the path his nose had just taken, John’s head jerked back and hit the wall behind him with a soft thud, eliciting a hissed “Sherlock … Christ”. Oh, this was going to be doubly delicious – not only was he tasting John’s smooth golden skin, but the very act of doing so was drawing the most _fascinating_ sounds from his flatmate. This was one experiment that definitely bore repeating.

Trailing his lips and nose down the line of muscle for the second time, he felt John’s fingers tighten in his hair as he passed a particularly sensitive area. As he stilled, John tugged gently at his curls, willing him to carry on. With a barely vocalized groan of greed, Sherlock rolled his forehead across John’s taut belly, and placed a single kiss on his hipbone. He moved to the other side, tenderly planting the twin to first kiss, then carefully, _so_ carefully, licking into the dip of bone and muscle. His tongue was met by salt and spice, tea and John, and it was _glorious_.

John is a good man. He is kind, and loyal; his moral compass always points true north, and his patience … well, many will tell you that his patience is _legendary_. But patience is a virtue, and John was not feeling virtuous right at this moment. _Hell_ no.

Carefully guarding his true feelings from his brilliant flatmate, John had done his own share of observing and cataloguing over the past months. He was fairly certain that Sherlock had little – if any – experience of close, physical relationships, and this notion alone had supplied some pretty powerful material for fantasies, casting John as the patient worldly-wise teacher, and Sherlock as the innocent, but oh-so-willing student … Not that he had ever imagined a scene quite like the one he now found himself in – Sherlock caressing John’s belly with his face, scattering kisses across newly-discovered erogenous hotspots, and now he was – Jesus, he was actually _licking_ John, and the sight of Sherlock’s hot, pink tongue dragging across his skin combined with the deep, rumbling sounds of need he was making, was so fucking hot there was a very real risk John would come without anyone even touching his cock.

Oh god, he had been hard since Sherlock had first crouched on the ground, arms braced against the wall and loosely caging John, while the heat of his ragged breathing curled around John’s crotch. The tip of his shaft was slick, and with his jeans no longer restricting him, his thick cock pushed against his shorts, desperately seeking friction. “More”, he growled. “Sherlock, please, I need …” Sherlock’s grip on his hips immediately tightened in response, and he pulled John closer still. Dipping his head, eyes once more tightly shut, he focused on the lure of John’s scent and followed it to its mouth-watering source. Mouthing at the fabric-covered length of John’s cock, Sherlock – suddenly ravenous – licked and kissed his way from the earthy, musky delights at the base to the salty freshness where the moist tip met the fabric of his shorts.

Heat was rapidly suffusing his limbs, his entire body appeared to be trembling with the intensity of his need. Certain that he would not be able to sustain the crouching position for much longer, Sherlock went to his knees, huffing out an amused breath when this elicited another racked groan from John. “Good visuals?” he rumbled. “Fuck, you have no idea”. John was frantically pushing at his shorts, too far gone to acknowledge any lingering concerns about Sherlock’s inexperience, or the wisdom of having sex in an alley no more than two minutes’ walk from a crime scene buzzing with coppers.

With a soft grunt of pleasure at the sight before him, Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the base of John’s cock, the velvety heft of it a heavy and novel sensation in his palm, but one that felt so _right_. With feather-light touches, his sensitive fingertips travelled the length of John’s shaft, reading the pattern of skin, tissue, and blood vessels like Braille. Pre-come had gathered in the slit, adding a glistening sheen to the soft flesh of the glans. John’s hips shuddered as Sherlock stroked the tip of his tongue delicately across the slit, collecting and savouring the precious drops of liquid. The plush cushion of Sherlock’s upper lip clung to the silk of John’s glans for a fraction of a second before separating as he drew his head back to look up at John’s face.  

John’s gaze was dark with lust as he stared at Sherlock in wonder and adoration. He was frantically dragging air into his lungs through his open mouth, the strain of remaining upright, remembering to breathe, and trying desperately not to come written plainly across his features. Sherlock may be inexperienced but – John realized when he watched the dark, tousled head bend back towards his cock, intent flashing bright in his silver eyes – it would be a mistake to forget for even one second that he was a damn quick study.

Thumb and forefinger forming a loose ring to steady the base of John’s shaft, Sherlock licked a broad stripe up to the frenulum, then tenderly tongued the foreskin, before plunging forward to engulf the length fully. Leaving John’s brain no time to catch up, he drew back and sucked gently at the glans, alternating this with smooth, long strokes. John was making no sound, other than the rushing of air on his frantic exhalations, but the muscles of his thighs had turned rigid with the effort of not pushing further into Sherlock’s hot mouth, the fear of overwhelming him greater than his need to let go and chase the pleasure.

Reaching blindly above him, Sherlock pulled at John’s hand where it clutched his shirt, and tugged it towards his own head. “Guide me”, this gesture told John, “show me what you like, I want you to”, until, with a helpless groan, John succumbed. Fingers threaded through Sherlock’s curls, he took command of the depth of the slide, eased the pace, and he taught Sherlock, with gentle tugs and extravagant curses, to lavish attention around the head of his cock, the pressure of his tongue firm against the underside, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked softly on the glans. Sherlock was so absorbed in the sensations of taste and texture chasing across his tongue, and so utterly delighted with the sounds and profanities he was now coaxing from John, that his own swelling pleasure barely registered.

John was unravelling, his movements becoming uncoordinated, his focus narrowed down to “fuck”, and “tight” and “oh god, it’s Sherlock’s mouth”, “I’m fucking Sherlock’s _mouth_ ” … The hot, insistent slide of his cock between those lips and along Sherlock’s tongue was too good, it was too much. Sherlock’s hum of encouragement vibrated along his shaft as he pushed forward, wrenching an intense climax from him, his back arching and his cock pulsing deep in Sherlock’s mouth. “Fuck, god, fuck”, he stammered, wracked by shudders and watching wide-eyed as Sherlock drew back, swallowed, then very deliberately took the entire length back into his mouth and slowly sucked it clean. 

With one hand braced against John’s trembling thigh, Sherlock sat back on his heels, eyes closed, and licked into the corners of his mouth, greedily seeking out every last trace of John on his lips. John gulped air, his head still spinning, the depth of his desire and love for this infuriating, mad, gorgeous man threatening to overwhelm him. With a growled “fuck it”, he shook his head, and grabbed Sherlock’s shirt at his chest. “Up, get up”, he bodily lifted his boneless flatmate, whose eyes opened wide as John spun him around and pushed him against the wall. One hand against Sherlock’s shoulder, John efficiently tucked himself back into his shorts, then shook his head again.

“Should’ve known you’d be fantastic”, he grumbled. Sherlock responded with a smug little smile. “But …”, John placed a kiss in the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock shuddered. “… there is always…” another kiss followed to the pulse point under Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock forgot how to breathe.  “… _something_.”

 _What_? Before indignation could even properly register, warm lips captured Sherlock’s mouth, an insistent tongue stroked along the seam of his lips, coaxing them open, then licking inside. Sherlock lost seconds, minutes, a whole lifetime to the sensation of John languidly exploring his mouth, each stroke of the tongue, each nibble of his lips a separate explosion of pleasure that shook Sherlock’s slender frame.

Satisfied that he had reduced his genius to jelly, John pulled back slightly and smiled up at Sherlock. Whose hair was a mess, whose face was flushed, and whose lips were gloriously kiss-swollen. John had never seen a more beautiful sight. Sherlock gazed back into John’s steady blue eyes, fragments of thought floating on the waves of arousal. “Kissing …”, he murmured, “… you mean kissing”. Pushing his face into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, John kissed, then sucked the smooth skin into his mouth in affirmation. “John …yesss”, Sherlock gasped, “more, please, more kissing”.

Smothering his smile against Sherlock’s skin, John readily obliged. He stroked the fingers of one hand around the curl of Sherlock’s ear, then slid them into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged. Sherlock eagerly offered his mouth, opened his lips, even dared to send his own tongue exploring. Pleased, John sighed into his mouth, and sliding his other arm inside Sherlock’s coat, he stroked his hand down his flank, idling on the curve of his buttock.

Tucked against John’s body, Sherlock’s cock, hard and slanting upwards, eagerly responded to this caress. John’s hand traced the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, dipping inside at the hip with a deft little twist of the wrist, and then sliding his palm slowly along the skin of Sherlock’s abdomen. Unwilling to relinquish John’s lips, Sherlock’s breath stuttered as he felt John’s fingers curl around his hard shaft, so he just breathed against them while he turned his attention to the sensation of John’s strong fingers stroking the delicate skin against the rigidity beneath. Two, three strokes, followed by a gentle slide of his thumb cross Sherlock’s glans, spreading the slick moisture, then returning to long, firm slides along his length.

“John, god, so good, John”, Sherlock sobbed against soft lips, as his entire world contracted to a pinprick of light before blossoming into a purple-hued super nova behind his closed eyelids. Stroking him through his climax, peppering soft kisses against his cheekbone, his temple, his ear, John hushed and soothed and settled him. His eyes still closed, his breathing gradually calming, Sherlock nudged John’s cheek with his nose. “John…” John turned his face towards him and placed a single kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Hmmm?”. “That was … it was _amazing_.” “Mmmh”, John confirmed.

Minutes later, after straightening their clothes and a half-hearted attempt at applying tissues to tailoring, their eyes met as they turned to walk out of the alley side by side. “Got your breath back?” Sherlock cheekily enquired. “Ready when you are”, John grinned.


End file.
